


Two brothers

by twofrontteethstillcrooked



Series: By wreckage, torches, dust [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor - All Media Types
Genre: AU, F/M, Flashbacks, M/M, So many flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-28 01:53:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/pseuds/twofrontteethstillcrooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Somehow it was clear now, in the present, that it had taken everything in Thor's power for him to keep his gaze off Loki, everything in Loki's to keep his off Thor. Longing, she thought, the word raw as a burn. The air in Sif's lungs felt too thin. She stood up from the log and stretched. She had to decide what to do. Thor was waiting. She had to shake off the memory, where he and Loki were still brothers, both well, both brave, both loved.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sif, Thor, and the beginning of another pursuit of Loki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two brothers

**Author's Note:**

> This is definitely an alternate universe, set after The Avengers and with very, very, _very_ few references to anything that happens beyond that.

. . . . .

_You ask why no one believes in madness anymore,_  
 _and he tells you stars needs a darkness to see themselves by._  
 _\--from "Our Bodies Break Light," Traci Brimhall_

 

. . . . .

At the western edge of the plain of Ida, in the forest at the foot of the mountains was an unobtrusive lake Sif knew by its old name: Biðja. To wish; to beg; to pray. It seemed right she should be hiking its shore between mare-pines, whiskery reeds, and water-smoothed stones. She stopped for a minute to watch a bit of fog lift itself from the lake's surface like a wraith. The sight of that vapor perturbed her for reasons she could not explain. A whalebone scored with runes had washed up on the sand; she did not touch it. The wind brought a scent of winter. The wind would account for how badly she had slept last night. 

She was very far from home.

_("Just the two of you?" Fandral said. His fingers were in her hair and she pulled away. He let his hand drop to the mattress and watched as she rose, put on her robe, and poured wine into a small cup._

_"Thor is my dearest friend," she said. Her rucksack was packed and sat by the chamber door. She took a sip of the wine and did not look at Fandral.)_

Sif thought she also smelled smoke from the campsite behind her, where Thor was well hidden in the shadowy forest. He must have awakened, then. She should return and see what help she could provide. Turning, she caught in her peripheral vision the barest iridescence glowing through the copse, Frigga's protective magic, a pale green shimmer someone who knew no better would not think to explore. Would not even see, the same way they would not be able to place the fire's scent.

There was a log rotting at the juncture of shore and field, and Sif sat atop it, wondering how best to approach the rest of the evening. If Thor was planning to set out before dawn, it would not be too long now. She would have to decide.

She was very tired. Her eyes closed without her permission. Do not fall asleep, she warned herself, and she knew she would not; but she could take another minute. Thor would not begrudge her the rest.

They had made camp in this forest before, years ago, further toward Asgard. At the translucent edge of wakefulness, she remembered a sink of limestone filled to brim, bubbles tickling her feet. Thor floated near her on his back, whistling some off-key melody. The sky beyond the trees had moments ago been dense gray and now was a wave lit coral and violet. On land Volstagg cooked a squirming trout in a warp-bottomed pan, Hogun shelled acorns for later boiling, Fandral wrung out a tunic to be line dried.

Loki uncoiled a sinewy lash from his hands; silver slithered around Thor's ankle and disappeared. I barely felt that one, Thor said languidly, fibbing, and Loki smirked. Next time, brother, Loki said, as agreeable as an imp. A purpled humbogey hovering above them spit. Loki snapped his fingers and the insect expired with a tiny woeful squeak. Thor yawned. Sif began to make her way out of the stream, up the bank stippled with spiky grasses, flinty moss, mushrooms, beetle shells.

Thor stood, water streaming from his hair and torso. He splashed Loki by accident, and Loki accidentally miscalculated the distance from his elbow to Thor's ribcage -- he was just getting in some exercise, obviously. Thor could nearly fit Loki's whole head in one hand, and by the time Sif was blotting herself with a threadbare towel the two had churned a foul slime up from the bottom of the spring. Thor grinned at her, Loki scowled with extravagance, and she shook her head at them with fondness, wrinkling her nose as they climbed out of the muck. 

They did not smell worse than Volstagg's trout, though, so were allowed to sit on dry land and have dinner anyway. After eating, everyone grew drowsy. The fire was calm and warm, and Sif imagined she could feel traces of Loki's magic settling like a fine dew over everything. 

At a lull in conversation, Thor turned toward Loki; Sif saw Loki's whole expression open and shutter almost in an instant. She had no word for it as it was happening. But in the unwinding memory she saw more plainly what neither Loki nor Thor would intentionally share though their eyes exposed them. 

Somehow it was clear now, in the present, that it had taken everything in Thor's power for him to keep his gaze off Loki, everything in Loki's to keep his off Thor. Longing, she thought, the word raw as a burn. The air in Sif's lungs felt too thin. She stood up from the log and stretched. She had to decide what to do. Thor was waiting. She had to shake off the memory, where he and Loki were still brothers, both well, both brave, both loved. 

 

Beside Thor's tent the fire in the small circle of rocks had an odd tint to it, dark pink as twilight; another spell had set it. The fire would not burn out and could be left unattended. He was a little better at magic than he'd let on. Sif realized she didn't know how long he'd been studying with Frigga, and counted backwards in her head. The queen had sometimes, recently, seemed more frustrated than usual, and though many things could account for that, if she had taken on Thor as a student...

_("I know how you feel about Thor," Fandral said later, serious in a way she had never heard him be while they were upright or clothed._

_"No," she said, curling away. "You don't.")_

Thor was gone and so too were the two large gray hares she'd snared. She recalled he hated to gut anything at a campsite. Loki was always the one to skin rabbits, fast, with unsettling precision. 

"Hello," Thor yelled from somewhere nearby. "Do you have a sharper blade I could borrow?"

"Probably," she called out. His knives were often a bit disgraceful. Studied concern for the pristine condition of a blade had been one of the few things she had in common with Loki more so than any of the others.

Thor came ambling back into camp with the two naked hares. Mud on his boots, hair half out of its plaits, bruises beneath his eyes. Blood on his hands. From her rucksack Sif fetched the one skillet she'd brought and her sharpest, thinnest knife. She forced calmness upon herself, as Thor rinsed his hands with cold water poured from a pitcher.

In companionable silence she and he made dinner, and she let her thoughts roam. Her first memory of Thor and Loki: there had been a feast? But there were many feasts. She seemed to remember standing in one of the long torch-lit palace corridors and seeing them descend the stairs at the other end, one on either side of and slightly behind Frigga, both with untucked shirts and smudged faces, like they had just been dragged from the gardens by their ears. They did not see Sif. They were too busy trying to slap at each other without Frigga noticing -- though Sif was certain Frigga noticed anyway -- and each jumped when the trumpets were sounded for the All-Father's entrance.

A few years after. Loki made a snuffling piggy sound behind her back during training. The sun strengthened through the gild of her hair as she whipped around on him, trying to catch him out. Such a polite look he gave her, his eyes guileful green as a clover leaf. And Thor was not paying attention to anything, making a pattern in the dirt with the heel of his boot, maybe counting out some attack plan in his mind where he was the victor over marauding rock trolls. Later he would grin at the sound of Sif's knuckles cracking and Loki's muffed yelp, his amused blue eyes meeting hers over the head of his grimacing annoying conniving whelp of a brother.

The stern instructor bellowed at all three of them, Twenty turns starting this instant and you will do it properly for once or your fathers will hear of it, I will not stand for this insolence, you are not fit to clean the horses' stalls much less defend the righteousness of Asgard!

An age hence, she walked a town street next to Thor, and in the periphery of her vision the elders sized her up, their faces saying they were deciding once more to excuse her breach of propriety because what a fine couple she and he made. She bit the inside of her jaw.

She had no ambition to be a princess, much less queen. She might be chosen as Valkyrior one day, or not. It would be no more honorable than fighting beside the heirs of Asgard. Sif would _not_ be marrying Thor, whatever anyone's parents wished. What was he to her? A spur, a spar in afternoon heat, arrogant, disputatious when famished, usually keen to wrestle, someone whose shin she kicked during practice from blinding white frustration; Thor who was frequently loud with a converse knack for stealth; fearless; loyal like you could set the rotation of the realm to his steadiness; a sky full of sunlight.

Thor whose mouth tasted like mead, whose hands gentled. Talented here too, brazenly. He and she never spoke afterwards. He would be asleep when she crept out into the hallway braided with moonglow. She held him long but once. Once she threw a pin from some endless board game at his head. On many topics she and Thor would argue each other to Valhalla; they were as well matched as two mules.

She may as well marry Loki, who was full of grudges and hexes, too wily by a mile, forever catching them up in some elaborate plot. Silver tongued Loki, _Jotun_ Loki. A stolen thief (o irony of ironies), liar, killer, who flirted with lunacy, something dangerous deformed within him, a drop of snake venom in a goblet of blood.

(But she had not known it then. None of them had, had they? Not even Loki had known.)

Loki whose yarns and ruses more than occasionally led to torch-wielding mobs but could also make Thor and the Warriors and even Sif laugh to the point of weeping. At the conclusion of one of his hazardous schemes, they might collapse over their cups with helpless vertigo-surges of mirth at the jubilant retelling of the affair.

Yet had he not always been jealous, had he and Thor not fought each other as much as together? But this was not the whole truth of them either. It was too hard to unpick them like you might a seam.

"He said he lived in the shade of my greatness," Thor once relayed of Loki, misery in his voice. She had not responded. What was there to dispute?

Too many years between them, too many conflicts, fetes, and legends, exaggerations, miscommunications, fibs, and revisions. Brothers forever in competition, goading each other, constantly in each other's space, and what rolled off Thor clung to Loki like scragging vine.

Loki beaming at some new scorched hole in Thor's favorite tunic. Thor carefully tipping a whole cellar of salt into Loki's mug while Loki bragged about a filthy conquest involving two distempered dwarves and a herd of oxen. Thor extending his hand to help Loki out of a tree or up from a sinkhole. Sometimes his hand slipped, ahem, and Loki tumbled down like a bundle of twigs; sometimes, instead, Loki had set a trap, full of slugs and fox droppings. Sif had personally witnessed each of them, on separate occasions, crouching behind furniture, cat-like, waiting for the other to emerge. Countless split lips, black eyes, floor burns. The Incident with Surt. The Horrendous Lesson Regarding Marmennill. The Whole Village That Had to Be Rebuilt. The Other Village Three Miles Away Thor and Loki Were Banned From Infinitely On Pain of Death. Loki pulling a lindworm under his thrall so the rest of them could escape the cave; Thor bashing the creature's head with Mjölnir when they were safely away.

And where were the harbingers of Loki's transformation, something more sinister in his deeds? Where was the line between mischief and malice?

Loki had drawn a dagger across Sif's scalp when they were all still very young. He had been sorry -- she continued to believe his remorse had been genuine -- and she became someone else, someone, she had to admit these ages later, she preferred to her old self. He pried loose the lindworm which attacked Thor, yes, but he had also crafted the antidote that spared Thor's life. How many times had they almost perished? And she had not thought any of them fragile.

They were myth even amongst their own. After a day of sport or war, of greatly predictable bickering, Thor and Loki were still often together at the fire when everyone else had retired to tents. And mayhap they had not known anyone was watching. She had not meant to be watching, passing to her tent, and what had she seen, what could even be proved when she could always only be sure of Thor, but Loki could forget himself too, and was not so good a liar as that.

The two of them talking as if they were not so much apart in the balance, Thor's hand on Loki's shoulder, or Loki reaching up to tuck a strand of hair loosed from Thor's plait behind his ear, and the lingering minute of them looking at one another, conversation fading, before a lark trilled and broke the stillness.

Loki was dead. Loki was dead. Loki was dead. Thor had stared unblinking at the pyre, his fingers laced through hers as though she were the only thing binding him to earth, and then he and she were in his bed, having left shredded clothing in their wake. She did not know how to bring him back. She was frightened for him as she had never been in all their battles. Loki was dead, and Thor was alive, and Sif did not know which Thor hated more.

She kept her eyes closed, Thor hooked his hand under her knee, he rolled her beneath him, his shoulders tightened under her hands, she shuddered and he followed, oh gods, they were wordless beyond sorrow. She held him long but once.

It was very long ago. It was no time at all.

 

_"Thor told me, 'I keep thinking he must have been so lonely.'"_

_It felt like utter betrayal, to say this to anyone, and somehow worse to say it to Fandral, though Sif knew Fandral was a better man than she tended to give him credit for._

_She shouldn't have said it, but what Thor had said stunned her still. That he could think that--_

_Loki had liked killing people with no more thought than-- **That's** who Loki was, who he had always been. But if she and Thor were both right -- and in her bones she knew they were -- what manner of creature was Loki? God or monster? Was there a difference?_

_If Thor, against whom he had trespassed vastly more, could pardon him and she could not, what did that make her?_

_Fandral said nothing. He smoothed the hair back from her face and waited for her to continue._

_"Thor thinks he knows how to find him. I told him I would help. I said I would always help."_

_She did not like the way her voice sounded._

_Loki had been gone, having fled, having been banished, many times since his first disappearance, long enough that in some realms, perhaps, his crimes were but distant memories, tragedies that befell ancestors. There were no Midgardians still living who would personally remember what he had done to their realm on multiple occasions. Sif felt a pang of grief in missing those comrades in arms who had died, old by mortal standards and young by Asgardian ones: Thor's avenging friends, Darcy with her sarcasms and Jane with all her fiercely striving light._

_Jane would have known best how to help Thor, Sif thought._

_And who would best help Loki? Did he want to be found? Thor was certain this time was different, that Loki was in the kind of trouble he could not conquer alone. Did Loki deserve to be rescued? A large part of Sif very much did not want to care, but she kept returning to Thor, and the way he spoke of Loki, and the way his eyes looked when he did so._

_Focus on something else, she begged herself. Fandral's eyes were dark in the dim light of the chamber. What would it hurt, she thought, to pretend tenderness a while longer. He leaned in and kissed her as though it meant something, and she let him._

 

The rabbit was consumed, the pan and knife rinsed and put away. Thor sat by the pit and prodded a branch in the unchanging fire with an iron prong. Sif came to sit beside him, feeling more chilled than seemed normal with such a steady fire in their midst. You must decide, she thought again, and looked at Thor fully for the first time since they had finished cleaning up.

"Are you all right?" she asked, because it seemed, finally, to be the only place to start.

He did not answer for a minute. "No," he said, small and sad. He brushed his thumb over a scratch on her knee. "Are you?"

Sif wanted to say yes, for it to be true. They had always been the worst at duplicity, hadn't they? Loki had been despairing of their ineptitude for years.

She understood for the first time why he treasured a lie. You could warm your hands by an honest lie. Its light might start slight but could be provoked, would set you to blazing; it could burn everything clean.

Still. She owed Thor her honesty.

"After tonight I cannot go further. I am so sorry," she said, and Thor nodded. He knew all along, she thought. They both did. They had walked for two days to this place on some map Thor knew to follow. They had both known she would go no further, and she had come with him this far. Perhaps it was enough.

She wanted to say it aloud, though, for her own sake if not his. "You are going to find Loki, of this I am certain. And it is what you must do. I understand. Not that you need my understanding," and he smiled faintly, "but you have it."

He held her gaze. "You do not have to explain," Thor said.

She swallowed. Thor's eyes were bright and sober, like he knew exactly what she was thinking. He had not always been adept at reading others' expressions or guessing at anything hidden. It had not been his way, to question silence for anything but acquiescence.

Loki had committed so many crimes, she had stopped counting. She had stopped hoping. They were all changed. Older. So much older. In one way, however, Thor remained unwavering.

Your love for him, Thor, is your greatest weakness and yet the best of you.

It did and did not pain Sif to think it.

She said, "I cannot come with you. I cannot hope for his return, nor his salvation." She looked away and steeled herself. "You may be -- nay, _are_ in terrible danger in pursuing him or his enemies, and I would not dare leave your side if I thought I could be of any real assistance in setting right all that has gone so horribly wrong. It should not be your burden alone. Were your aims toward any other end--"

"But they are not," Thor said, seeming more foolish and yet wiser than she had ever heard him sound before. "And you owe neither me nor him anything. I had no right to ask. I never meant to use you ill, Sif."

"You had every right to ask." She touched his face. "Truly. You and I are old friends. There has never been any harm between us."

There must have been something in her voice Thor heard beneath the words, and it took a moment for him to accept it.

She wanted to say, I was going to spend the rest of my life with you. She took a breath and let it flood her mind. I was going to spend the rest of my life with _both_ of you: the king and his most valued advisor, the king and the trickster prince, my lieges, my friends. It does not matter how many years ago I believed this. I wish I could believe it now. I was going to earn my place in legend and one day command your, Asgard's, armies in glorious battle. I was going to be in venerated service to your realm 'til the gods fell. Loki said he loved you more dearly than we; but poorly, yes, and a liar and killer he remains, though once he spoke truth often too...

For the thousandth time Sif wanted to be indignant; she wanted to let the anger she felt toward Loki and his sins drive her forward forever; yet it would not do. She thought of a crowned Thor standing one day as king without Loki by his side, and it felt as unutterably wrong as Loki sitting in Odin's throne alone had felt.

Sif looked up at the pinprick starlight high above the tree canopy. Tomorrow and the day after, and the day after, Thor would travel far beyond their home to find his brother. This time, as long as Thor drew breath he would never cease to search, and she would not go with him or wait for his return.

"I know how much you love Loki," she said softly. "I know it is not in you to let him go. Though I do not desire his freedom or redemption, I will pray for your safety. I will protect your home." She took his hand. "Please come home one day."

Thor kissed her temple. They sat together in the firelight while the moon rose. Sif stood to go to her tent, squeezing his hand.

"Be well," he said.

It was the last thing spoken between them. By the time she woke with dawn, he had already left.

 

That night, after hours of walking and, eventually, stumbling with exhaustion, she relented and made camp. 

She dreamt she went down an identical (but not) track of mud and clogging leaf, deep into a woodland that seemed recognizable (but not). At the door to a tiny cottage, a spákona attended a headless fowl and eyed Sif, wary.

"What will you give me, shield-maiden?" she asked Sif. Sif uncurled her hand to proffer a dragon's sabre-tooth, a minor but useful token.

The old woman smiled. There was no benevolence in it; Sif had known to expect none. She wanted to close her eyes.

_Open your eyes, Sif._

The spákona grabbed Sif's right hand and with the tooth traced the thickest lavender vein hatched across Sif's palm. Blood bright as rubies blossomed in the cut.

Sif did not flinch. The seer bristled, impressed.

_You are not home yet, Sif._

The spákona said, "Many stories begin, 'There were once two brothers.'"

_Wake up._

 

She was only another half day back to the capital on the most well-trod path through the forest when Volstagg's footsteps began making tree limbs shake. It was no surprise to see his voluminous form stomping towards her. He waved heartily; a sardine he was eating right from a tin flopped around in his hand.

Beside him Hogun was grumbling something about the chill, the bad fit of his boots, a recent bowl of breakfast porridge, which had been like paste, and the tavern proprietress, who had been rude.

"Hello to you too," Sif said, hiding a groan while she removed the knapsack she'd been carrying on her back. Hogun owed her for a lost wager a fortnight ago involving who could throw a knife the furthest. (She'd beat him by a yard.) He took her bag with a masterful lack of graciousness in his expression, but he took it.

Fandral, bringing up the rear, stepped up to take her tent roll off the strap she was using to carry it.

"I've got it," Sif objected. "One thing is not so heavy."

He shrugged and unbuckled it anyway. "And none is lighter still. It's no trouble."

She looked away and bit back a response.

The four of them walked along in silence, until Sif thought to ask, "So, were you just out for a stroll then?"

Volstagg said, "Indeed. It is a fine day for it."

"Too cold," Hogun stated.

"Exercise is good for the blood," Volstagg said. He was her cheeriest friend by a lengthy lead. She knew he was also most likely her smartest fellow warrior, a man who was far savvier than he might have appeared outwardly, and in his wisdom -- supplemented by whatever Fandral may or may not have revealed -- was choosing not to comment on the oddness of finding her trudging back to Asgard alone.

The lack of Thor was, in particular, not being discussed. She was grateful for this.

_("He is in love with Loki."_

_Fandral's eyes went comically wide like she had transformed into a talking squirrel. She had not, in fact, intended to speak aloud. Thor loved Loki. And Loki, whatever else he was capable of, loved Thor. The truth of it hit her square in the stomach._

_"They are brothers," Fandral said, sitting up in the bed, his face like he was thinking about jumping out a window. His voice had gone funny._

_"Not precisely," she said._

_"They were **raised** as brothers," Fandral said, frowning. "Odin--"_

_"We should not trip over ourselves praising Odin's handiwork. The man who, among his lauded skills, had powers enough to have easily prevented his most troubled son from plunging into an abyss **and didn't**." Heimdall strike me dead, she thought._

_"Well, surely he had proper grounds," Fandral argued weakly. He was regretting this conversation. But what discussion involving Loki did not, at some point, dredge up something regrettable?_

_"Oh, surely," she said. "We have all had our rationales."_

_"What is that supposed to mean?"_

_"None of us is without some blame. Do you feel no twinge of guilt that right under our noses one of our own became the sort of person who would hardly hesitate to kill us? I do not think that metamorphosis happened in an hour."_

_"Are you saying we deserved it? Thousands are dead at his hand -- did they deserve it? Be rational, love, his recklessness and our ignorance cannot be equal."_

_"No," she said, "I do not exonerate his behavior. Only think, Fandral, how much we failed to recognize, both in him and ourselves. And how many paid for our failings."_

_Fandral looked miserable. She felt equal to his misery. Nevertheless._

_She continued, "You cannot tell me you never wondered -- all our many adventures with Thor and Loki, and you never saw the two of them...?" And here Fandral began to look a bit more uneasy. Ah-ha, she thought, I was not the only one. If this is madness I will not be alone with it._

_"I do not want to think about this." He scratched at his upper lip anxiously._

_"You did not see Thor, Fandral," Sif said. Gods, why was she telling him this? The recollection was like being nicked with a dulled blade. "When we believed Loki had died..." What they had done trying to abide it. Then everything that had occurred on Midgard, and then, and then, and then. Years of wars against Loki, and his first betrayal remained an ever-unhealed wound. And every time, with every crime, Thor had been furious with him, yes, but even more shattered than angered._

_"That is no reason," Fandral started._

_"Love is always a reason," she said.)_

Dear Thor, she thought, and could not escape it: the idea of him living without Loki seemed impossible. Sif thought back to the morning of Thor's ill-fated coronation. In truth it was fewer than three hundred years past but felt an eternity in the distance, like something that had happened to other people.

What were we going to do with ourselves, she thought, watching Hogun and Volstagg split a bag of jerky. Keeping pace with her, Fandral was still uncharacteristically quiet. She could sense him not glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

Again she thought, We were going to help Thor protect Asgard 'til the realm tumbled from Yggdrasil's branches, 'til the very end of days. Loki would have been his most trusted advisor -- no, be honest, he would have been the shadow king, the ruler hiding in plain sight. And we would have borne it, because Thor would have.

Be safe, Thor, she prayed.

In another few hours the spires of the palace would begin to grow above the treeline ever at the horizon. That towering bastion, where Thor and Loki were not, would be in sight. A half day was nothing to someone as old as they were. A hundred years would be hardly more. She would have to trust Thor would find his way home.

Loki too, because Thor would find him. Thor would always find him. Sif's earlier words to Thor echoed in her mind, and she swallowed against them.

"All right?" Fandral said, low enough the others did not hear. It might not have been his place to ask her such a question, yet she felt he had timed the inquiry well.

She looked at him, never slowing her pace. He was looking at her plainly, his eyes full of an empathy she could not acknowledge but appreciated anyway.

"Yes," she said, knowing he would forgive her the lie.

 

. . . . .

**Author's Note:**

> What seems like a kazillion years ago now I started a story. You know how you're working on a long story, and Life intervenes, and you go away for a while, and Other Stuff Happens, and then you come back and think you can take the story apart and use a bit of it as a one-off and you'll chuck the rest?
> 
> No. Likely _you_ are not a flibbertigibbet. ::rolling eyes forever at self::
> 
> Anyway, arguably, you could consider this story one of three possibilities: a stand alone, a sequel, or a prequel. I think of it as the first of the _By wreckage, torches, dust_ trilogy.
> 
> Part two (which was posted first, because wow I am slow on the uptake) is [available here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/979139%20). The third part, which is Thor's, is coming soon, hopefully.
> 
> [ETA] Big thank you to Jintian who saw a draft of these a zillion years ago and was her usual awesome self with beta-stuff.


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